


In Dimming

by pherede



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asphyxiation, Character Death, M/M, Rape, Very Dark Kink, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thorin lies bleeding, or he thinks he is bleeding, though perhaps he is losing something more precious than blood." Incredibly dark, graphic depictions of rape; Azog captures Thorin and strangles him in front of the Company. Written for a prompt on the kink meme; not for the faint of heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dimming

**Author's Note:**

> This is deeply disturbing to me, an exploration of things I don't normally like to put in my stories. But I am obsessed with kinks that aren't my own, and I think there's a place for well-written horror in the realm of erotica, and even the guiltiest kinks deserve a moment in the light.

There is pain, crushing pain, where only a second ago was air. Flames howl around him, wicking away the ends of his beard, turning all his horizons into a fever-dream of dancing ghosts.  
  
Thorin lies bleeding, or he thinks he is bleeding, though perhaps he is losing something more precious than blood. All sound has departed him, crushed by the blow to his head, and above him through the flames he sees his nephews in their tree, Gandalf and Bilbo and Balin whose heritage is as lost as Thorin's own, all of them with their faces racked in silent flickering masks of horror: wide mouths, wide eyes, no sound at all. A moment ago he was at war, a warrior against his enemies; now the only struggle that matters, the only battle he can remember ever fighting, is the endless battle for air.  
  
He is beginning to feel the first sparks of pain, where ribs grate in his chest and his battered limbs contract around their shattered cores. Broken, he is broken; like a blade shivered on a stone, like the line of Durin at last.  
  
At least the fire will take him before his enemies do, and he will be like his ancestors: a burned dwarf.  
  
Then a hand closes on his ankle, heedless of the flames, and all his body crumples into the sky, arms and legs dangling; his ribs clash within him like spears. He is in the hands of Azog the Defiler, whose white grinning face is all that Thorin can see. He is his grandfather's head, held aloft like a lantern; he is seeing through his grandfather's dying eyes.  
  
Azog is shouting, his pale lips contracting over wicked fangs, and Thorin can almost hear what he is saying, but to his ears a great bell has tolled only a moment ago, leaving him deafened and ringing. He can hear the high shrill screams of his companions, he can feel air rushing back over his tongue again, and he tries to summon energy to his limbs to fight back.  
  
Azog laughs, and tosses him facedown in the dirt, and kneels over him. They have retreated from the flames, but Thorin thinks that they must still be licking his flesh, dissolving his limbs, devouring his lungs. He waits for death.

Instead there is cold air, ripped cloth, exposure, nakedness. Every wrench of his shattered leg strips the breath out of him like an inferno. One arm still works, and he digs it into the earth and pulls himself away; oh, he is screaming now, he can feel the high reverberation of it.   
  
He twists, trying to meet his doom face-on, and while he cannot lever his lower body upright he succeeds in locking his eyes with Azog's, and he sees the great white orc pull his loincloth aside and work his member into stiffness with one, two, three fast strokes.   
  
Adrenaline floods him. He cannot bear this; he must fight his way to the flames, and die with honor. Kili cannot see this. None of them can--  
  
He gains a few inches, a scrape in the earth, before Azog seizes him again, and there is a blunt pressure, a monstrous _thing_ seeking entry at the crux of his buttocks, only averted by its own immensity; it slides along the groove, the cleft, and stabs at him again, bruising at his ballocks and no more able to invade him than would be a bludgeon.  
  
He hopes he will die before Azog succeeds.  
  
Instead there is a different pressure, a jagged finger pressing hard, waiting for his body to weaken for only a moment; and then Azog's other hand is around his throat, digging in until even Thorin's earlier, ineffective gasping seems generous. Black spots appear before his eyes, and he convulses; his only thought is to keep fighting for as long as possible, so that Azog will push him too far, so that he will strangle before he is breached.  
  
In this he fails, and he feels the gobbet of spittle strike at his tailbone and slide downward, and he feels himself opened just as the pressure upon his throat eases and he takes a single sobbing breath.  
  
The finger is gone almost immediately; Azog does not intend to prepare him well. He cramps as it departs, and when the... the other invading thing returns, it fails to find purchase.  
  
Azog screams with fury, and the sound is the same sound as the screams of Thorin's companions. Bolts of lightning strike around him, or perhaps they are only flashes of white light as Azog chokes him again, but even Gandalf cannot save him now. Only Azog himself, with his constricting fingers, can rescue him from his own destruction.  
  
And still Thorin's body revolts against strangulation, and he feels himself opening below, and with that grasping spasm of his ring he feels himself split open, torn and invaded and filled. There is motion, there is blood, there is hot urine pooling on the earth and the stab of grinding ribs; he bears a hundred fatal wounds, and not one of them will have the mercy to kill him.  
  
Whatever air remains in his lungs is stale and hot, and the heaving of his chest does not move it at all: he is strangling, he is dying, a great and panicked warmth swelling in every part of his body. The massive length of Azog plunges in him until his diaphragm is bruised, and a whistle of air escapes, and in his distraction and fury and pleasure Azog lets his fingers loose for a second, tormenting Thorin with another breath, another minute of excruciating life.   
  
Now Azog is fucking him in earnest, laughing in foul orc-tongue over the bloody wreck of Thorin's twitching body, clamping his fingers down again; and Thorin bears it, still scraping at the sodden dirt with his good arm, drumming his unbroken foot against the ground in a staccato of urgency that no mental surrender can avert. He is being stripped of even the dignity of accepting his own death.  
  
There is no release of the stricture of Azog's fingers, and Thorin feels his gut spasming and convulsing in final throes as Azog's pounding becomes more frantic, feels his cock harden in the inevitable hangman's salute, feels the hum and the black haze close in; then Azog snarls, cruel climax, hot flood, shudders-- tremors-- a spilling heat-- black--


End file.
